


oysters, but no pearls

by Ink



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ink/pseuds/Ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he can bring himself to glance back up, he finds Kurt still looking at him, staring at him, expression cautious but contemplative, the lines around his mouth all gone soft. Not like he's angry, and not like he's in pain--just looking at Blaine, like Blaine is a question and the answer actually matters.</p>
<p>"Kurt," he whispers, not quite under his own power, and just like that, the moment's over: the shade comes down over Kurt's face, everything closing off.</p>
<p>(Coda to 4x10, "Glee, Actually.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	oysters, but no pearls

Blaine sleeps fitfully that first night, curled up on the edge of the couch with his feet hanging over the side, dreaming of empty corridors and things he can't remember when he wakes. After the third time he opens his eyes to a sore shoulder and a dark room, he gives the whole cause up as lost--this is what coffee's for anyway, right?

When he pads out towards the fire escape, he finds the window already open: Kurt is sitting on the steps there, his back to Blaine, leaning heavily against the railing. Blaine rests a hand on the window-frame and just watches him for a moment. "Hey," he says, at last.

Kurt straightens a little, but doesn't turn. "Hey."

He eyes the open window. "Can I--" he starts, and thinks better of it almost immediately. "I mean, should I not . . . ."

He trails off, looking at the way Kurt's shoulders are angled, high and tense, the high, wide collar of his coat. "Why did you do it?" Kurt asks, still staring out into the street, and Blaine is momentarily struck dumb.

"I--" His throat's stuck. "I thought you didn't care about any of that," he says, slowly.

That's when Kurt glances back at him, his gaze surprised and--searching, almost, searching for something in Blaine's own face. (Blaine wonders whether he's disappointed by what he sees.) "I guess I changed my mind."

"I don't--" And he stops, because that's only half-right. "It was stupid," he begins again, looking down. "I'm not really sure what I--I just kept thinking, _I've already lost him,_ and all I wanted was to stop feeling so alone, and--"

Kurt is very, very still, still watching him, his free hand clenched in his lap.

He swallows around the lump in his throat. "You weren't there," he says.

" _You_ were the one who told me to go to New York--"

"No, I mean--you weren't _there,_ " he manages, gesturing incoherently, and he doesn't--he remembers sitting there in the choir room, the buzzing of the fluorescent lights strangely loud in his ears, everything seeming hazy and unreal. He doesn't think he can make it make any sense to Kurt; sometimes he can't even make it make sense to him. 

Sometimes he wonders if he dreamed the whole thing--if he'll wake up one morning and find it was all some long terrible nightmare, and when he gets to school Kurt will be leaning against his locker with a smile, sweet and open and happy, like none of this ever happened.

(He wonders, but never for long--he knows, he knows, he blew this up himself.)

When he can bring himself to glance back up, he finds Kurt still looking at him, _staring_ at him, expression cautious but contemplative, the lines around his mouth all gone soft. Not like he's angry, and not like he's in pain--just looking at Blaine, like Blaine is a question and the answer actually matters.

"Kurt," he whispers, not quite under his own power, and just like that, the moment's over: the shade comes down over Kurt's face, everything closing off.

"I'm still mad at you, you know," Kurt says. Even and steady, betraying no hint of emotion. He turns away from Blaine once more. "Even when I try not to be. I don't know when I'll stop--I'm not sure I'm ever going to stop." 

Blaine wonders whether he's ever going to get used to this sick, winded feeling. All signs point to no.

"Sometimes I think--" and there's that crack, that waver that's painfully familiar-- "sometimes I'm sure I'll just go on being angry forever, that I'll feel like this for the rest of my life, and it's not like I _want_ to, but--"

_But I just can't help being furious at you._

"I know--I'm sorry," he whispers, even though he knows apologizing again isn't going to make anything better, might actually make things worse. "Kurt, I'm so--"

Kurt holds up one hand. "You've said," and now he just sounds tired. There's a pause, a minute hesitation. "Come on. Let's go for a walk."

 

 

They circle around the block twice, and Kurt doesn't say anything, so Blaine doesn't either, even though every inch of him is thrumming with tension. He feels like a live wire. They're the only ones out here at this hour, and the street is so, so silent.

"How are things in Lima?" Kurt asks finally, still staring straight ahead.

"What?" Blaine says blankly--because it's just such an _ordinary_ thing to say after all of this--and then, "Oh," and then, "Fine. I mean--everything's fine, you know about New Directions already. Finn's been calling nursing homes left and right and I think I can get us a slot at the King's Island show, so. You know. We'll be busy enough."

And this is surprisingly easy: it's everything about how they used to talk, without the weight of what they used to be. It's the steady stream of texts--friendly, surface--they've kept up since Thanksgiving. (Blaine knows all about Vogue's spring line and the magazine spread Kurt has been working on, and almost nothing about how Kurt feels about any of it.)

There's even a hint of amusement in Kurt's voice when he says, "I imagine you will be," looking up at the sky. He tucks his hands under his arms--to warm them, presumably. "It's a shame about Sectionals, though."

"Yeah, well--" He shakes his head. "I don't even know what happened with that. Apparently she just wasn't eating--we all sit together at lunch and I didn't even notice."

"Oh, come on, you are not doing this," Kurt says immediately, and there's this warmth creeping up Blaine's spine: no, _this_ is how they used to talk, this is how they used to be. "You are not going to stand here and blame yourself for something that was almost entirely out of your control." 

He looks at Kurt, who's looking back, seeming--surprised at himself, a little, clasping his own hands carefully. Blaine glances down at the ground. "I just--" He rubs the back of his neck. "I don't want to use that as an excuse, you know? I think it's good to take responsibility for whatever you could have done, even if it's only a little bit."

There's a long silence, and Blaine doesn't look up until he hears Kurt say, "You have a point," very softly, and by that point Kurt's not looking at him anymore; he's looking out at the street in front of them, his expression gone soft and thoughtful again.

Blaine swallows. They walk the next half-a-block in silence. It's not that there's nothing he wants to say--far from it--but he knows, it's not his place to ask. ( _Do you hate me now? Will you ever look at me like meeting my eyes doesn't hurt? Do you ever think about where we'll be this time next year, where we were supposed to be_ right now--)

"Are you sure you're all right with me applying to NYADA?" he says, instead.

Kurt swings his clasped hands in front of him, still facing forward. His gaze is level; Blaine can't read him at all. "Would you actually stop if I said no?"

"I--of course," he says, startled. "I mean--I wouldn't lie, about this, and I don't--I don't want to hurt you any more than I've--"

"I wouldn't."

He blinks. "You mean--" he hears himself start.

"I mean," and Kurt raises his chin a little, imperious and proud as he's always been, "if I were in your position. I wouldn't stop. I wouldn't even ask, because I know--I wouldn't stop for anything." He's turned back towards Blaine--they are facing one another now. "Not if it was something I really wanted."

Which is so very _Kurt_ \--ambitious, sharp, relentless Kurt, pursuing his dreams with utter certainty, knowing exactly which parts of him are unbendable--but it's not an answer, not really. "So--you're really okay with it?" he repeats, searching Kurt's gaze, hating the way he sounds. "It wouldn't bother you?"

Kurt's mouth twitches, downward. Neither of them has moved. "You should apply," he says firmly. "I'm sure you'll do great."

It's not really the answer he wanted to hear, but Blaine recognizes it for what it is. It's a gift.

 

 

He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. It doesn't.

Blaine stays another three days--doesn't really want to go back to Lima for New Year's, but his parents will be expecting him, and he knows Kurt and his dad will need some time to themselves. He spends the mornings out of the apartment, working his way carefully through tourist sites; then Kurt will come for him late in the afternoons and they'll walk together for a while, find some trendy coffee shop playing incomprehensible music and wait out the last rays of sunlight. They can chat for hours on end if they're left alone--about the weather and the city, Blaine's college apps and Kurt's internship, about nothing of consequence at all. No one mentions the night on the fire escape.

Which is--what it is, really. Blaine can't complain.

Sometimes he'll catch Kurt looking at him _like that_ again, the same way as on the fire escape, the corners of his mouth twitching downwards. When he looks back at Kurt, Kurt always looks away; usually he changes the subject, too.

Kurt and Burt see him off to the airport. They linger by the entrance to the security line for goodbyes--Burt claps him on the shoulder ( _Come by anytime, kid, you hear?_ ) and steps back, and Blaine looks over at Kurt, three paces behind with this watery smile on his face, and just--half-waves, turns to leave--

\--which is when Kurt rushes forward and pulls him into a tight, one-armed hug, cheek to cheek and clutching at the back of Blaine's shirt--Blaine doesn't move, doesn't say a word, just thinks _oh,_ dimly.

( _You always zig when I think you're about to zag._ )

"I--happy New Year," Kurt whispers hoarsely, and Blaine can feel the breath against his ear-- "don't--don't let Finn get a big head or anything--don't mind the jocks, good luck with your apps--tell me when you pick an audition piece and--"

" _I missed you,_ " Blaine rasps, the words tearing out of him, "I--god, I'll miss you so much, Kurt, I love yo--"

"Yeah," Kurt says, "yeah, me too."

He pulls back. Possibly everyone in this airport except Kurt's dad thinks they're crazy. Possibly Blaine, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve, doesn't care. "You'd better kick ass at NYADA," he says, trying for smooth and even, getting something more like pulled taffy.

"I'd better be saying the same thing to you in six months," Kurt replies decisively, and wavers. "I--Blaine--"

Blaine's heart is in his throat. "Yeah?"

Kurt opens his mouth--closes it without a word. "--call me?" he says, voice small. "When you get back. And--if you ever need anything--"

"--I know," he says faintly, although he's not sure he does. How did they get here again? "You too. Whatever you need."

Kurt nods and steps back. "My phone's yours, okay? And--don't get senioritis."

It's a miracle he manages to remember to take off his shoes. It's a miracle no one in the security line stops him for suspicious behavior.

He came to New York--well, to be there for Kurt, but also because he thought he might finally get answers, and if anything, he's leaving more confused than before.

 

 

There's a text from Kurt waiting when he steps off the plane. _Thanks for coming,_ it reads--that's it, nothing else, not even a period. Blaine stares at it for a couple moments, blinking.

_Thanks for having me :)_ , he sends back, because he doesn't know what or why or where they're going, but there's only ever going to be one answer to that.


End file.
